Baby Makes Three
by Scribe for Christ
Summary: John and Mary are having a baby. Sherlock Holmes is "celebrating" a birthday. Who knew the two events would coincide with one another?
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Baby Makes Three

**Chapter**: 1/6

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Non-graphic references to giving birth, discussion of drug use, discussion of death

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Molly/Lestrade (background)

**Spoilers**: For all seasons of Sherlock

**Summary**: John and Mary are having a baby. Sherlock Holmes is "celebrating" a birthday. Who knew the two events would coincide with one another?

**Author's Note**: This is a continuation of events stemming from "His Last Vow", as they might possibly play out. I wasn't going for a full-length continuation of season 3, but just a nice little exploration of the characters and their interactions, all revolving around what will prove to be a pretty significant event. A story in six parts and I will post chapters once a week.

Of course, all credit for these characters goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the Sherlock Holmes stories and Moffat and Gatiss for moving these beloved characters into the 21st century. Constructive criticism is welcome as I am always looking to improve. As always, everything I write is for the glory of God, who is the Lord of life and birthdays. Enjoy!

* * *

Sherlock Holmes heard the tinkle of china even before her step began ascending the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was bringing him morning tea. He did not bother to stop playing. Conversation was not a task he particularly enjoyed this early in the morning, and currently his mind was preoccupied. He sincerely hoped – though it was doubtful – she would deliver the tea and leave. He threw himself with more vehemence in his music, bringing the bow a little more harshly across the strings than he intended and marring the melody. "Hoo hoo," she rapped on the doorjamb seconds later. He could almost hear the grin in her voice. There would be no getting rid of her. He stopped playing, preparing to the face the inevitable. "Is that one new?" she asked him as she sat down the tray.

"Yes," he answered her, tapping his stand with his bow. "I've found a collection of sheets I've neglected to learn. Understandably, though. They're all show tunes and regrettably dull."

"That one you were playing was lovely though. Rather bright and sunny. I do love a good show tune."

Sherlock started to make some remark about the prosaic themes that cluttered the overly sentimental plots of stage productions these days and ridicule their unimaginative songs, but he felt Mrs. Hudson's eyes – and grin – on him. He turned to find her face beaming ridiculously as she held out a muffin perched on her more expensive china employed only for special occasions. The flickering flame sunk deep within the muffin gave away her purpose.

"Oh, is it today?" he muttered with a sigh. He turned towards his chair to retrieve his phone to check the date. Mrs. Hudson let out a laugh, for some reason finding this wickedly funny. "It's your birthday," she cackled. "You must know your own birthday."

"Most of the time it is completely irrelevant," he uttered, tossing his phone away again having confirmed the date. It was January 6th. Mrs. Hudson sat down the muffin, flame still dancing, and started to pour him a cup. "You at least must know how old you're turning," she suggested.

Sherlock retrieved his phone again, and Mrs. Hudson continued to have a chuckle at his expense. He did not understand why ordinary people relished in celebrating days of birth; he could not see that marking another year past had any relevance. "Thirty-nine," he articulated.

"That old," she mocked. He scowled to match the intensity of her smile, and she merely held up the muffin for him to take. He took it but refused to extinguish the flame. Mrs. Hudson gave him a pointed stare, and he suppressed a groan as he blew it out with hardly a breath. Childish nonsense, but it pleased Mrs. Hudson tremendously. He figured he could indulge her once.

After inhaling his muffin, suddenly finding himself hungrier than he previously thought, he sipped his tea quietly. Mrs. Hudson shifted through the papers, clearing a space as she sat down in John's chair with a tired sigh. "Sherlock, did you see the papers?" she noted, flashing the morning edition of the _Times_ at him. "That lovely girl – you know the one opening that new stage production at the Albert – she's gone missing – without a trace. Now there's something to suit your fancy." Sherlock leaned forward to snatch the paper out of her hand. He gave the article a quick perusal. Then he tossed it over his shoulder. "Run away with her secret lover – really not worth my time."

Mrs. Hudson ogled. "How can you know that?"

"Isn't that what all women of stage do nowadays? I won't be surprised if she turns up in Antigua with the man in tow and his 'bun in the oven'."

"Sherlock Holmes," she clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "Shameful." He hummed carelessly and took another swallow of tea. Mrs. Hudson quickly turned the conversation to pleasanter realms, chatting away about show tunes and some of her particular favorites. "I always loved to sing them," she confessed, "but I never could find a recording that had all my favorites. A shame really." Sherlock merely grunted his way through the conversation, blissfully thankful when they finally sat in silence.

After some time, Mrs. Hudson interrupted the tranquility. "Heard anything from John?" Sherlock took a large gulp of his tea and winced as it burned his throat on the way down. He set aside his cup and took up his phone once more to scroll back through his messages. He had received the first group text from John early this morning.

**_Mary's contractions have started._**

Then a few minutes later:

**_Heading to hospital. St. Mary's._**

There had been a lull before the next one:

**_Baby's not quite ready. Going for a walk._**

Nearly an hour later Sherlock was glad to see John coping with the situation delightfully well:

**_That would be a long walk…_**

He snorted upon revisiting that one.

It was almost nine o'clock, and John Watson had been completely silent for the last four hours. Sherlock would be lying to himself if he did not admit that it concerned him – a bit.

"Nothing more than you have I'm afraid." Sherlock took up his tea again to avoid answering any more questions. Mrs. Hudson sighed. "The poor dear," she clucked, "they are so understaffed in hospitals these days. I wonder how long they'll make Mary wait for a room. I once knew a woman – an acquaintance of mine – who was in labor for five days before they gave her a room. Five days!"

"I highly doubt that will happen to Mary," Sherlock assured her, though certain her anecdote was unlikely and a tad bit exaggerated. Mrs. Hudson only sighed dramatically. Then her cartoonish delight returned. "Oh, just think – what if Mary has the baby today? The baby'll share your birthday, you know."

Now Sherlock did audibly groan as he reached for another digestive biscuit. He had to get rid of her. "Don't you have something you could be doing?" he suggested.

"I do, in fact," she admitted with suppressed laughter. "Laundry. It's yours."

"Then, by all means, don't let me keep you from it, woman."

"Cheeky." Sherlock abandoned his cup, half drunk, for the violin. Mrs. Hudson made herself domestic as he shifted through his music, attempting to pick something against which his thoughts could flow freely. Thumbing through, he paused on a title that he had heard Mrs. Hudson mention earlier. That was when he noticed the quality of the paper. He bent down to sniff it, finding it crisp and fresh – not the smell that should be emanating from music that had been tucked away in his collection for ages. This music was new. He read the title again and clearly heard Mrs. Hudson's voice echoing through his Mind Palace.

"_I always loved to sing them, but I never could find a recording that had all my favorites. A shame really."_

_All her favorites…_

"Mrs. Hudson," he called out suddenly, turning to find her already gone. Tossing his violin aside, he hurried after her. Luckily she was still standing on the landing, her expression drawn in concern with his outburst. Immediately he grabbed her and planted an affectionate kiss on her cheek. It was met with a stunned but pleased expression. He returned her smile with a smirk of his own before he hurried back to the sitting room. Taking up the violin with a practiced motion, he tucked the instrument beneath his chin and started into a dramatic rendition of _Think of Me_. He heard her humming along even before her step began descending the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Baby Makes Three

**Chapter**: 2/6

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Non-graphic references to giving birth, discussion of drug use, discussion of death

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Molly/Lestrade (background)

**Spoilers**: For all seasons of Sherlock

**Summary**: John and Mary are having a baby. Sherlock Holmes is "celebrating" a birthday. Who knew the two events would coincide with one another?

**Author's Note**: I decided to publish this chapter a bit early since it is ready. Thank you all for the lovely reviews! I hope you continue to enjoy this story.

I left Sherlock's final song that he plays intentionally vague. I hope it makes sense.

* * *

Sherlock spent the rest of the morning working through his repertoire. Once he finished the show tune collection of Mrs. Hudson's selected favorites, he began shifting through the catalogue tucked away in his head, only playing the pieces conducive for thinking. He enjoyed multitasking, sorting through his Mind Palace. Making music was just what he needed on a day this tedious. The events of the past two weeks needed inventorying, determining what was best to save and what could be irreversibly deleted. He considered Moriarty's surprising resurrection – a task to which the British Government wished him to devote every brain cell. He revisited his last conversation with the man on St. Bart's rooftop, reexamined every vague expression the man used during their brief but charged conversation leading up to his very real demise. The biggest question he pondered was how the man had managed to speak from beyond the grave. It was a puzzle – a problem – a final problem; and Sherlock tucked that realisation away for further contemplation another time.

His thoughts turned often to John and Mary, so much so it bled through in his music and he suddenly found himself playing "Waltz, for Mary & John". However, the piece sounded strange to his ears. It had nothing to do with the fact that he had not traced those notes on his strings in several months. Something about it sounded…odd…almost wrong. He played it again. He was still dissatisfied. There was something sorely lacking in the melody. Immediately, he seized composition paper and a pencil. John and Mary supposedly had the original composition among the mementos of their wedding day; but he could reproduce it. However as he attempted to dictate the notes to stanza, he found the piece taking a life of its own. Soon he was listening to his recording of it and playing along, adding phases and notes here and there – attempting to right what to him was a grievous wrong.

Sherlock spent the next hour furiously scribbling on his paper and playing snatches, perfecting and editing the piece he had once proudly played at the Watsons' wedding. He was so intent upon his music that he hardly heard the pop of the door below and the tread upon the stair.

"Preoccupied?"

Sherlock lifted his head to see his brother standing unceremoniously in the middle of his sitting room. He inwardly groaned at this unwelcome intrusion. "Yes," he responded curtly, ducking his head and sincerely hoping – though he doubted it – Mycroft would take that as a hint to leave him alone.

But he continued standing and staring until Sherlock could take it no longer.

"What do you want?" he snapped, tossing down his pen.

"I've only dropped by to see how you were fairing." Sherlock was not quite convinced but waved his hand towards John's chair. It only took one glance over to determine what Mycroft had been doing this morning and where he was going this afternoon. "Succumbed to temptation this morning, I see." Sherlock clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "And for a peach strudel too. If you're going to put yourself over your calorie intake for the day, Mycroft, then at least be sensible in your indulgence. The Home Secretary chooses her delicacies in rather poor taste."

"It was with the Deference Secretary," Mycroft corrected exasperatedly as he took a seat.

"Why? Are we at war?" Sherlock mocked.

"No," Mycroft stated calmly. "Only making arrangements for someone who has seen it. But you would know all about caring for wounded veterans, wouldn't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock hummed distractedly as he fiddled with the folds of his dressing gown.

"Happy day of birth, brother mine," Mycroft announced as he propped his umbrella against the chair. Sherlock sighed; he had forgotten…again. He retrieved his violin and quickly chose a song to pass the time. The opening strands of Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E Minor filled the room, and Mycroft had to raise his voice to speak. "You've received a call from Mummy and Father, I expect."

"Yes," Sherlock answered above the strings.

"Her usual charade, I expect? The stories...what was it this year? The one about the treehouse confrontation with 'Red Legs' Greaves?"

"No. The garden party incident of '84. The one with the macaroons."

"Ah, I can recall that one vividly."

"So could she. I haven't quite recovered my dignity.

Mycroft smirked, for a moment Sherlock felt he could concede. That was, until he realized there was mockery dancing in his eyes, and Sherlock made a mental note to stoke the flames and make Mycroft's birthday call as mortifying as humanly possible.

"Mummy informed me your present will arrive the day after next," the man commented lazily.

"Lovely. Woolen socks." Sherlock feigned excitement. She always sent him socks. At least such a gift was practical.

Mycroft checked the time on his pocket watch. "Sherlock, do you remember –"

"Yes."

Mycroft scowled. "Sherlock, I wasn't finished speaking. Don't interrupt." Mycroft's patronizing air was antagonizing. Sherlock increased his dynamics. "Do you remember when Mummy – ?"

"Yes."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Something completely trivial and irrelevant," Sherlock pointed out, dropping the violin. He glared at Mycroft as silence filled the flat. "Why are you here?"

Mycroft sighed labouriously. "I've come to see whether or not any progress has been made concerning Moriarty," he confessed, dropping all pretenses of brotherly affection. His jaw became set, and his eyes obtained that threatening gleam that only irritated Sherlock rather than intimidated him. "There are certain parties that wish to know."

"It's been six days, Mycroft," Sherlock complained. "Six days isn't much time to produce the kind of results your 'friends' are asking for."

"Acquaintances," Mycroft corrected. "Must I remind you, Sherlock, you are now under the commission of the British Government? It is by their leave that you have been allowed to return to Baker Street and carry on with your quaint little ways."

"I've found nothing." He would say anything to appease his brother's droning voice.

"Oh? " Mycroft appeared unconvinced.

Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "And you have?" he challenged.

"I have my methods, Sherlock."

"As do I."

Sherlock had the upmost faith in his Homeless Network, but reports from the streets had been nothing but chatter and Billy had been uncharacteristically silent most of the morning. It was unfortunate that Mycroft had gained the upper-hand but it was a necessary succession. "Our technical staff has confirmed that the video did not originate in London," Mycroft delivered eloquently as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.

Sherlock laughed in contempt. "That doesn't narrow the field; it widens it. You call that information."

"My people are still working to trace the source," Mycroft assured him. "However, for now, this lets us know that we can't concentrate our efforts in London. Your little ragtag band of street rats won't help us here. _My_ people are going to get us results we need to locate Moriarty."

"Are you discussing that poor disturbed boy?" Mrs. Hudson inquired as she strolled in through the kitchen, a laundry basket of Sherlock's clothes in hand. She shuddered. "That day with his face all over the telly…I nearly dropped dead out of fright when I saw it."

"So I've heard, many a time, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock sighed as his phone pinged. He picked it up to check the message, surprised to find Mycroft doing the same with his own. "Is that John?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she sat the basket on the kitchen table and started sorting through socks. "I've misplaced my phone and can't find it." Sherlock quickly read the wordage as he strolled over to the kitchen, promptly sticking his hand in the pocket of her apron and depositing her phone in her palm. "Silly me. I always forget and leave it on silent," she cooed gratefully. Then she gave a little shriek of excitement. "They have a room," she exclaimed. "Oh, my – it shouldn't be long now!"

"Ah, yes, the excitement of parturition," Mycroft said drolly as he replaced his phone in his breast pocket, "it's a wonder any of us are here at all with the state of hospitals these days."

"You're part of John's group text?" Sherlock inquired in wonder as he retrieved his now cold tea for a sip.

"Why, yes. Why shouldn't I be?"

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson gasped, obviously still contemplating Mycroft's words, "you don't think…there will be any complications, do you?" Sherlock shot Mycroft a particularly nasty look. "You know, I once knew a woman –"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and braced as if for impact; but Sherlock acted quickly. "My trousers, Mrs. Hudson!" he cried, hurriedly pushing the woman back down the stairs to finish his laundry.

When Sherlock returned, Mycroft appeared particularly amused, and that only soured Sherlock's mood further. "What?" he demanded curtly.

"I was only contemplating how soon it would be before you smelled of baby power and lubricating cream." Mycroft chuckled. "Do you know how to change a nappy? Have you been practising?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock warned as he took up his violin again. It was time to try for another distraction.

"How long until you start being allowed to keep him, I wonder?" the man continued to tease. "You'll have to childproof Baker Street, of course. Can't have baby dipping his fingers in the acetic acid now can we?"

"It's 'her' not 'him'."

"Oh. I wasn't aware we knew the gender too," Mycroft feigned excitement.

"Mycroft!"

His brother's taunting smile disappeared as quickly as it had formed. "I've warned you, Sherlock," he sighed, checking his watch once again before beginning to rise. "Don't get involved." Sherlock threw himself into Paganini's Caprice No. 1 in E Major to block out his idiot brother. Mycroft only spoke louder. "John is a father now, Sherlock. His responsibilities apart from you are only going to grow. You might have enjoyed John Watson for a helpmate for some time, but those days are rapidly coming to a close."

Sherlock continued to play and glare; it was the best weapon he had. Mycroft considered him with an odd, pitying look. "You should have listened to me, Sherlock," he chided, his voice devoid of any warmth, nearly clinical. "Caring is not an advantage."

The bow slipped as Sherlock drew it over the strings; it produced an irritating scratching noise. Sherlock turned towards the window, childish hate longing to lash out against Mycroft's provoking words. But, miraculously (if he believed in that sort of thing; John obviously did), he contained his anger. Mycroft was rarely wrong. However, when he was, it stemmed from a lack of interaction with the world – poorly judging people and motives beyond their quaint caricature, something Mycroft did not understand. Sherlock knew John Watson too well now to take Mycroft's mishandled threat seriously.

Sherlock suddenly chuckled to himself. Now it was Mycroft's turn to give a frustrated, imploring, "What?"

Meeting his expression, Sherlock turned towards his brother. "The East Wind has blown my way twice, brother dear," he noted pensively as he tightened an errant string on the violin as it glistened in the morning light, "and both times, it has been caring that has given me the advantage to cheat it."

Mycroft's face flushed suddenly and contorted strangely. His appearance reminded Sherlock instantly of the one and only time he had fooled Mycroft by tricking him into consume a particularly tart lemon pastry. Fat Mycroft had been far easier to subject to tomfoolery. However, for now, Sherlock basked in his success and comfort of mind. Mycroft was wrong. Caring proved to have numerous advantages, many of which his brother was unaware.

"Give my congratulations to John and Mary," Mycroft finally managed, catching up his umbrella and hooking the handle of it over the crook of his arm, "for the child." Placing his violin against his chin, Sherlock held up his head a bit higher and contemplated the appropriate choice of song. Popular tunes had been the theme of the morning, so Sherlock declared it appropriate to further that development. He began a rather bombastic piece from one of John's favorite science fiction movies, a piece which stood in stark contrast to Mycroft's supposedly benevolent position in the British Government. The melody followed the man out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Baby Makes Three

**Chapter**: 3/6

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Non-graphic references to giving birth, discussion of drug use, discussion of death

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Molly/Lestrade (background)

**Spoilers**: For all seasons of Sherlock

**Summary**: John and Mary are having a baby. Sherlock Holmes is "celebrating" a birthday. Who knew the two events would coincide with one another?

**Author's Note**: Sorry for the delay in posting. Life has been busy. The next two parts focus more on the underlying mystery. I love mysteries but have trouble coming even close to the genius of Doyle, Christie, or Sayers. Therefore, apologies if the mystery seems too flimsy. I attempted to make it a twist on one of Doyle's original Sherlock Holmes' stories. See if you recognize which one. ;)

All mistakes are mine.

* * *

Sherlock finished his composition with relative ease. He was quite pleased with the way he had managed to polish it and collapsed in his great chair. His tea was appalling now; and Mrs. Hudson had yet to return with any consumables. He closed his eyes as he considered shouting for her. But he found himself growing restless again. He checked the time. It was nearly two in the afternoon, and John had yet to text again. He took up his phone, considering it for a few moments before scrolling through his messages. He pulled up John's group message and hastily texted a reply.

**How is Mary? – S**

He fired off the text and laid his phone on the armrest. As the minutes passed, he recognized that a reply might be long withstanding. John Watson had more important things on his mind than replying to a haphazard inquiry. Nevertheless, Sherlock waited, his hand hovering above his phone to grab it the moment it dinged.

Ten minutes later it sounded, and he caught it immediately.

**Well. She's doing really well. She's dilated 10 cm, and she's started to push. It shouldn't be long now.**

Oddly, he felt relieved that John had texted back at all. He also appreciated the fact that John had been clinical in his reply, seeing as the detective had spent the past several months reading everything he could about pregnancy and parturition. John's text gave him a better idea of how things were progressing.

He hastily texted a response.

**Excellent. - S**

His finger paused over the send icon. He wondered if they remembered…his request. Mary would have, seeing as she had not been disconcerted by his unorthodox appeal. However, as she was rather preoccupied at the moment, it might have slipped her mind. John had been rather put-off by the very idea and could not be as relied upon to see the request fulfilled. Nevertheless, Sherlock knew the man was his only option. He tactfully chose his words and added them.

**Did you remember to…? -S**

He intentionally left the inquiry vague as to avoid the direct force of John's wrath. He sent the text. A few minutes later, the reply came.

Yes.

He could almost hear the exasperation in John's voice.

**Thank you. –S**

That satisfied him. He was thankful all the preparations the necessary reagents for preservation had been made. Experiments in the following weeks were going to prove to be rather fascinating.

Mary's labour seemed to be progressing rather rapidly now; he had finished his composition. Thus, Sherlock decided to go to the hospital. He hurried off to his room to dress and returned to find a text from Lestrade.

**Down at the Pub. Got something for you.**

Sherlock contemplated whether or not the detective inspector meant murder or some ridiculous attempt at a birthday celebration. Deciding murder was more likely since "the Pub" had been a place of rendezvous in the past when Lestrade had wanted to consult on a case without the NSY's* knowledge, he donned his Belstaff and wrapped his favorite scarf around his neck. He then packed up his violin and newly transcribed music, concealing them snugly in his voluminous coat.

Leaving the flat without delay appeared to be more of a challenge than he originally considered. Mrs. Hudson had heard him stomping about in his bedroom apparently. She managed to corner him to learn his intentions before he had even properly descended the stairs, and she only released him when he swore on the head of his firstborn (like _that_ was ever going to happen) to offer John and Mary her congratulations when he looked in on them and the baby. Then he escaped the confines of Baker Street and began his walk to meet Lestrade.

He stepped into the frightfully warm pub which felt particularly close after the biting London winter. He resisted the urge to rub his face, particularly his nose as it tingled with blood rushing back into his features. He made his way to the bar. Lestrade was leaning against it, nursing a half-full pint, his eyes glued to the telly where some sport event was playing out in real-time. It was that brutal sport that John sometimes enjoyed watching that involved far too much senseless running and kicking of a ball than Sherlock cared**. He waited patiently though, but it did not take long for Lestrade to notice his arrival. "Sherlock," he grinned. "Happy Birthday."

Sherlock had stopped suppressing his groans; he made this one especially dramatic. That only served to make Lestrade chortle. "You sure I can't buy you one," Lestrade indicated as he raised his mug. "It is your birthday."

"No, thank you," Sherlock responded curtly. "You know I'll never touch the stuff again…after…"

Lestrade chuckled before taking a swig of his glass. Sherlock had no desire to relive the events of John's disaster stag-do.

"You said you had something for me," he swiftly reminded the detective inspector. This little side-stop was interfering with his plans. It had better be worth the sacrifice.

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed as he retrieved some evidence bags from within his jacket. "Marianne Dasher. Ever heard of her?"

The name jogged Sherlock's memory. He had snatched it out of Mrs. Hudson's hands earlier this morning. "She's the stage performer who has suddenly disappeared," he confirmed.

"Run off with her lover?" he suggested.

Lestrade shook his head. "No."

"No?"

"No lover. Or at least she hasn't run off with him if there was." Lestrade moved swiftly to rip open the evidence bag and fed Sherlock a picture of the woman's apartment. "Apartment was locked. There's nothing to suggest she was forcibly kidnapped or left in a hurry."

"But she didn't disappear from her home," Sherlock noted as he raked the photograph with a clinical eye.

"No," Lestrade agreed as he passed aside another photograph. "She disappeared from last night's performance directly before the last scene. She was there, and then she wasn't. One of her cast mates saw her retreat to her room after her last scene and assumed she remained there until people came looking for her to do the curtain call. She'd just vanished."

"Let me guess. The cast members suspect that an opera phantom dragged her down to his lair," Sherlock mocked, but the reference was clearly lost to the man. Sherlock groaned at his allusion, realizing Mrs. Hudson and her show tunes had addled his brain. He feared her prattling might one day cause it to rot out of his skull. The consulting detective waved for the stalled detective inspector to continue. Lestrade cleared his throat. "It's evident that she came back to her apartment last night. One of her neighbors remembers hearing the key in the lock after midnight, a considerable time after the performance would have ended. But they don't recall hearing it again – if she left."

"And no lover?"

Lestrade leaned casually against the bar as he watched Sherlock categorizing evidence, data being gathered and filtered from the pictures. "She was described as very committed to her work," the older man continued. "Very private though. Preferred to spend her evenings off at home or practicing her vocals. We've checked her contacts, close relatives, computer, papers – there is nothing to suggest a romantic attachment of any kind."

"No," Sherlock agreed as he thumbed through the photographs of her flat. All evidence pointed to the life of a single woman. However, the evidence seemed too conclusive. He pursed his lips in thought.

"What's this?" he muttered as he held up a photograph of a prescription. Several similar snapshots had proceeded it. Lestrade shuffled his weight uneasily between his feet. "Do you know what they're for?"

Sherlock glanced at the drug names. "Prescription narcotics. Extra-strength painkillers. The name has been ripped from the prescriptions," he noted.

"We've contacted the physician who apparently wrote them – a Dr. Armstrong – but he is very strict about patient confidentiality and claims he's never met Marianne Dasher. We're working on a warrant, but…"

"You're afraid she might be lying wasted in an alley somewhere?" Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Or worse – dead." Lestrade swallowed evenly. "The thought had crossed my mind," he admitted.

Sherlock took an even breath before responding, his voice low and tight. "We both know I preferred recreational substances."

"I know," Lestrade blurted out all too quickly. He cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder before sliding away his glass and leaning a bit closer. Sherlock refused to meet the man's gaze and continued to sift through the photos. "But an addict is an addict. You'd know the signs, yes?"

"Indubitably." Lestrade passed over the second evidence bag. "Describe her," Sherlock demanded promptly as he arranged the prescriptions in front of him and then ripped open the new bag to retrieve the tube of lipstick.

"I said she was driven. But fun loving. The entire cast loved her. Not a bad word against her. Despite being a bit of a recluse, she enjoyed the company of those she worked with. They've only been working together a few months, but she's never demonstrated any moodiness, depression, agitation."

"So no withdrawl symptoms then."

"None that we can see," Lestrade noted. "I had my people specifically ask for that after we uncovered those prescriptions in her apartment."

Sherlock turned the lipstick over in his hand before opening it. He screwed the applicator to its maximum extension and noted the frequency of its use. He had seen her bathroom cabinets, indicating that she had not been a regular user of her own personal cosmetics. That was understandable since her face was plastered with it every time she walked out on stage. So then who or what did she put on this lipstick for? He sniffed it and then examined the applicator more closely. No signs abuse of the gloss; it was almost as perfect as when the manufacture had cast it. It had only been worn down by friction against the lips. It had always been applied with a steady hand – no nicks, cuts, or an uneven tip to suggest otherwise. He could have Lestrade analyze the flakes of skin still adhering to the applicator, but he was certain his conclusions her correct. He slid Lestrade a photograph of Dasher's toothbrush – worn but still shaped. "She's no addict," he pronounced. "There would be clear signs of anxiety on her toiletry items if she was."

"A dealer, then?"

"Going to a doctor to get her meds? That's not how they do it in London – or at least that was not how they _did_ it. Too risky these days. Most dealers get it through others – health employees that steal. If she dealt these drugs, why does she have prescriptions for them? It doesn't add up." Sherlock considered Lestrade for a moment. "Did you find anything else in her flat?"

"That's it." Lestrade ran a hand through his gray hair and blew out forcibly through his cheeks. "We went through that flat with a fine toothed-comb. It would have met your standards, Sherlock. But there was nothing. Before you ask, we also checked her private room at the Hall. None of those medicines show up among her things."

Sherlock considered the photographs before him, running his finger tips across various ones as he considered them. "She's careful," he suddenly breathed. "Too careful. She's hiding something, something she is afraid of anyone discovering. It's a facade. But it's not about the drugs – at least not for herself anyway."

"Is she trying to protect someone who is using these drugs – whether for profit or pleasure?" Lestrade thought aloud, picking up his glass. Sherlock tipped his head. "Possibly," he decided. "But there's this," – he held up one of the prescriptions for inspection – "this isn't any type of addictive substance." He pulled out his phone and quickly typed a way on it. "No, this is for treating epilepsy and bipolar."

"Could she be passing drugs to someone – backhanded dealing or something? Or is she holding them?" Sherlock did not respond as he considered the evidence once again, turning it over in his mind. He felt there was something missing though; a clue that had been heedlessly passed over but was extremely important. He was missing it. Quickly, he shifted through the photographs again. "Could she be ill?" Lestrade considered aloud after a long pull of his beer.

"No. There would be signs," Sherlock asserted.

"Right." Lestrade sighed as he pulled out his phone. "Donovan is supposed to text me with more details. Though I think it's safe to say," – he momentarily held up his phone as if searching for a signal – "this investigation is at a standstill."

Sherlock could not agree more. He closed his eyes briefly, deciding it was time to step back for a moment and try another method of approach. Unfortunately, he felt a gaze upon him; he ignored it for as long as possible but finally it became to grating to overcome.

He opened his eyes; Lestrade watched him silently. The vacant expression, furrow of the forehead, narrowing of the brows – Lestrade had grown nostalgic. Sherlock had a very good idea what images the good detective inspector might be remembering.

"Please refrain from recalling the circumstances under which he first met, detective inspector. That was quite some time ago." Sherlock sighed. "I am not the same man."

"Thank God. You're not," Lestrade agreed, looking remarkably pleased with this verbal acknowledgement of the obvious.

"I'm not," Sherlock echoed, perplexed by the knowing curve of the man's lips into a smile and shining eyes. It was almost as if the man was "proud" to hear Sherlock utter those words in this context. Preposterous! It was time to leave. Sherlock turned away and started to gather up Scotland Yard's evidence that littered the bar.

"Heard anything from John?" The inquiry was a welcome one.

"Mary's doing well. Her cervix is dilated 10 cm," Sherlock answered almost reflexively. Lestrade stared with wide eyes, and Sherlock considered his words, realising they were a bit "not good". He corrected himself immediately. "John says she's started to push, which means it won't be long now."

Lestrade relaxed a bit as the air cleared. "Yeah. Yeah, that's good," he agreed. "But I asked about John. How's John?"

"What do you mean, 'how's John'?"

"I mean, did you ask how he was fairing?"

"No. I fail to see the relevance."

"He's about to become a father, Sherlock," Lestrade observed. "I doubt he's not a bit nervous." Sherlock considered this fact, a new revelation in his mind. He had never pegged John as one to simply get "nervous" in the manner which Lestrade implied; and if he did, it had not shown in his body language the days prior. "You should send him a bit of encouragement," Lestrade offered. "You know – be a good mate."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and leaned against the bar as he contemplated a text to John. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, Lestrade drinking his beer and cheering on his sporting event while Sherlock struggled with societal norms. Finally, the detective decided to send an almost literal translation of what Lestrade suggested and fired off the text.

**You're doing really well, John. Keep it up. –S**

It was ridiculous. He sent it anyway.

His phone pinged only moments later.

**Sherlock!? Are you…?**

"Now he thinks I'm high," Sherlock snapped with a glare at Lestrade, "or pissed."

Lestrade's phone immediately buzzed. It was a text from John. "I'll deal with it." Sherlock slumped against the bar and wished the day would come to an end. Sentiment. Babies. Impending changes. Birthdays. Perhaps it was not too late for someone to get properly murdered and make everything right.

His phone sounded again, and Sherlock checked it with some reluctance.

**Thanks, Sherlock. Sorry for the confusion. The stress of having a baby is getting to me.**

**I thought Mary was the one giving birth. –S**

**Ta.**

Sherlock ducked his head to hide his smirk, not giving Lestrade the satisfaction of appearing pleased at being rewarded for being "a good mate". He slipped the phone back into his breast pocket and changed his mind. Perhaps this day was turning out alright.

A few minutes later Lestrade received another text. "Donovan," he sighed wearily as he scrolled through the message, "The procedures are in place. We can question Armstrong now. That's my cue." Lestrade finished the last of his mug and took back his evidence, carefully storing it away in his coat. "Where are you headed?" Lestrade asked as he paid his tab.

"The hospital. I've been instructed to offer congratulations when I have word the baby has arrived."

"Then take mine as well. Congrats to the new parents," Lestrade grinned as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, and the younger man grew stiff at the unexpected touch. "Happy Birthday, Sherlock." Sherlock hummed in assent as he started to make his way to the door.

"Oh, and, Sherlock?" Sherlock elegantly turned heel at Lestrade's last implore.

"You realize that you and baby Watson will share the same birthday most likely."

The man was grinning far too widely. Sherlock bit back an aggravated sigh and smiled wearily. "So I've been told."

Then the consulting detective ducked out of the pub back into the cold.

* * *

*NSY = New Scotland Yard

** Lestrade is watching rugby. In the original ACD canon, John Watson played rugby while he was at university.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: Baby Makes Three

**Chapter**: 4/6

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Non-graphic references to giving birth, discussion of drug use, discussion of death

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Molly/Lestrade (background)

**Spoilers**: For all seasons of Sherlock

**Summary**: John and Mary are having a baby. Sherlock Holmes is "celebrating" a birthday. Who knew the two events would coincide with one another?

* * *

Sherlock had already been sitting there for two hours, thirty-seven minutes, and fifty-two seconds when Molly Hooper finally arrived. He informed her as much without even looking up from his phone as she took a seat. "It's not highly unusual for first time mothers to have an extended labour," he continued. "It can take anywhere from eight to twenty hours. Thus, considering Mary has been in labour nearly twelve, I would say we're still making good time."

"You're timing how long it takes John's child to be born?" she questioned. He flicked his eyes upward to glance at her face. "Yes," he offered in way of explanation. Then he returned to his phone, though he could see her smiling in his periphery as she shifted to make herself more comfortable in the cumbersome plastic waiting room chairs. The room was rather close, but he had not even bothered to take off his coat. Perhaps he looked rather odd sitting in the waiting room of the maternity ward hunched in his Belstaff, but he preferred to keep his violin close and concealed. Sherlock glanced up from his phone and appeared rather surprised as Molly Hooper offered him a large disposable cup supposedly full of liquid. "It's coffee," she explained. "Black. Two sugars."

"Ah," he said with a charming smile as he took it deftly from her.

"Happy birthday." Sherlock almost had the cup to his lips when she wished him well. The words caused him to pause and roll his eyes. "I knew there had to be some other motive behind this." Yet he took a drink of it anyway. Molly took a hasty sip of hers as well, appearing as if she burned her tongue in the process. "Just another day on the calendar," Sherlock intoned, finding it easy to confide in Molly his complains of the day. She would listen without judgment. "Another year past. As some would say another step closer to the grave. This birthday they might also say I already have one foot already in it."

"But it's your birthday," Molly said with a laugh. "Surely you can be at least a little bit excited on _your_ birthday. John and Mary's baby is going to share your birthday."

Not that sentimentality again.

"It's a day that had profound significance once, many years ago. Otherwise, it is no different than any other day," Sherlock delivered. "It's not like I remember it – though Mummy does like to tell stories of Mycroft being utterly ridiculous and not wanting anybody but him to hold me.

"I doubt John and Mary's child will remember this day either. No, birth is a starting point, with each passing observance only bringing one all the closer to the ultimate end point. The East Wind takes us all in the end, Molly Hooper." Sherlock raised his cup and tipped it to her in way of appreciation before taking a long drink. Molly gulped her own coffee again, looking unconvinced by his speech and a little saddened by it.

They fell into companionable silence for some time. Sherlock preoccupied himself with his phone, only making time for conversation when Molly forced it. Molly did not appear to mind. She had just come off a twelve hour shift at Bart's. For some reason, she felt she needed to be here even though there was nothing she could do but wait. Preferring to quietly process her own emotions, she kept her eyes fixed on the doors leading into the main floor of the maternity ward for extended periods of time, as if expecting John to come through them any second to announce the happy news.

If only…

Time sluggishly prodded along. Molly grew fretful. Sherlock found himself growing impatient for news of any kind. There was the crossing and uncrossing of his legs, then an irritated bounce and switch of his foot, the drumming of his fingers, and the repeated checking of his watch and phone. He was having a difficult time keeping his anxiety in check. Molly chewed her bottom lip and pretended not to notice as she scrolled through her phone feed for the fiftieth time; but she did notice.

Finally, Sherlock let an exasperated sigh escape and rose to his feet. He began to pace to work off some nervous energy. "It's been over thirteen hours," he announced. "Something is wrong. Thirteen hours is far too long. There must have been complications."

"Sherlock, please." Worry furrowed her brow, and tension drew lines on her face. Sherlock threw himself back into his chair with a flop that nearly flipped the plastic chair over backwards. He continued drumming his fingers repetitively on the chair rests and shifting his feet unsettlingly. Molly stared at him and opened her mouth slightly. She was going to try and console him. He did not want a distraction; he wanted answers. "So it's been a little over thirteen hours –"

"Thirteen hours and thirty-two minutes since John sent out his group text saying Mary's contractions had started," he supplied helpfully. "And almost three hours since he informed me Mary had started to push. It shouldn't take this long." He did not like the edge of panic that crept into his voice. Molly most likely had noticed it.

"There's no reason to assume –"

He cut her off again. "Then why hasn't John texted?"

"He's with Mary," she attempted to explain. "She probably scared, terrified. It's her first baby, and the baby is two weeks early."

Sherlock calmed – a bit – at the logical explanation. He should have considered Lestrade's words more closely. For the Watsons, this was not just a physical event; it contained an emotional component too. Nevertheless, that did not negate the need for communication – or his need for a distraction. He fixed his eyes elsewhere now – on the reception desk that checked in expectant mothers and saw new mothers out. "Maybe I could step back and have a look," he suggested.

Molly shook her head. "No, you can't. Only family can go back with the mothers – husbands and mothers and boyfriends and such."

"Then I'll just pretend she's my sister," he assumed. To this, Molly snorted, and he turned, startled by her reaction. "You can't do that either," she assured him hastily, appearing a bit embarrassed by her sudden rush of air through her nose. Quite frankly it sounded embarrassing.

"And why not?" he demanded.

"You're Sherlock Holmes. Everyone knows you as 'the detective with the funny little hat'. And they know you don't have a sister."

"Of course, they don't. Why would they?"

"I have no idea," Molly faltered. He checked his phone again as if miraculously willing John to send him a text. There was nothing. Sticking his phone into the depths of his coat, he sighed heavily once again and then fell silent.

Molly spoke next a few minutes later. "I would be terrified," she commented. She had been ruminating and was now thinking aloud. Sherlock hummed in way of response. When she did not respond in kind, he prompted further. "Terrified?" he repeated. He thought for a moment, attempting to deduce her thoughts. "Of having a baby?" he guessed since they were sitting in the waiting room of a maternity ward. "I hope you're not planning to do so in the near future. I would advise against it."

"What? No. Oh no," Molly exclaimed, her face flushing in a rush of blood. "I meant – I mean – I wanted to say – of holding one – a baby – of holding a newborn baby for the first time." She laughed uncomfortably.

Sherlock shrugged flippantly. "It isn't difficult." Now, it was Molly's turn to be a bit surprised by his reaction. Then she smiled encouragingly. "You've had experience with it, I gather?"

"Nope," he replied, popping the "p". "YouTube is a glorious resource for the under-educated."

"Don't you mean 'ignorant'," she teased.

"Not in the least," he asserted. Quickly, he adjusted his position and held his left arm out firmly against his chest and brought the right to effortlessly meet the left. "There is a science to this," he met Molly's skeptical expression.

"A science to holding a baby?"

"Yes," he asserted. "You have to support head and neck exclusively. The developing neural circuits in brain are extremely vulnerable to injury at this stage of life."

Molly attempted to mimic his position but found herself hitching her shoulder up too high. "No, bring it down a bit," Sherlock instructed. "And bring his hand around as if you are going to cup your hands. No." He reached out to adjust her arms.

"You just dropped her."

"What?"

"Baby Watson – you just dropped her." He stared at her for a moment before rolling his eyes dramatically and resuming his former position. "You can't just forget your surroundings while you're filtering," Molly instructed gently. "You do have a bit of a habit in doing that."

"So I've been told."

Instead, Sherlock attempted to hone her technique with verbal instruction, all the while holding the imaginary "baby Watson". All worked well until his phone sounded deep from within his coat. He immediately moved to retrieve it, but a particular pointed glare from Molly informed him this pretense was not over. Thus, she made move to retrieve it from his pocket. "It's from Greg."

"Read it."

**Armstrong is refusing to comply. Taking him down to the Yard. Will update. Keeps saying he's never met Marianne Dasher, and he is under strict confidentiality by his patient. Gave the name Mount-James. Said he would sort this out.**

Molly asked him something, but it barely registered. "Mount-James," he muttered aloud. "Mount-James…where have I heard that name?"

"What?"

Sherlock did not have time to answer Molly's persistent inquiries. "Google his name," he urged her.

"You're faster than me," she confessed. "Give me the 'baby'."

"No. It's fine. Google. Mount-James. Now." Molly did a quick search Mount-James and Sherlock subsequently berated himself for not recognizing it immediately. "Of course, Lord Mount-James – he's a prominent member of the Ministry of Defense. Said to be the eyes and ears of the department. He's always keeping tabs on…"

Sherlock came to an abrupt halt as Mycroft's voice gratingly pierced the tranquility of his Mind Palace.

_It was with the Deference Secretary. _

_Why? Are we at war?_

_No. Only making arrangements for someone who has seen it. But you would know all about caring for wounded veterans, wouldn't you, Sherlock?_

Armstrong gave Mount-James's name as his contact. Mycroft spent the morning consulting the Secretary of State for Defense not on matters of war, on matters of a more personal nature. Arrangements for a wounded veteran – that implied things of a clinical nature – doctor's care. And Armstrong was giving the name of a man on the Ministry of Defense as his alibi. That was not a coincidence.

_What do we say about coincidences, Sherlock?_

_ The universe is rarely so lazy._

Armstrong claimed to have never met Marianne Dasher. Nevertheless, prescriptions written by his hand had been found in her flat – prescriptions for opioids that could be used for substance abuse…unless there _were _being used to manage a very real pain.

"Carbamazepine*," he said.

"What?"

Molly seemed to have an overt fondness for that word among the others in the English language.

The chemical rolled off his tongue again as easily as if it had been the word "cat". "What else can it be used for besides epilepsy and bipolar disorder?"

"Sherlock, I'm a pathologist, not a practicing physician," Molly reminded him smartly.

"But you would have learned it at one time for another," he promptly, gazing at her imploringly, his mind on the verge of exploding, his heart hammering against his chest in anticipation. He needed to know. "Carbamazepine?"

She grimaced as she no doubt racked a Mind Palace of her own. "It's an anticonvulsant – antiepileptic drug."

"Yes, I think we've established that."

Molly blushed, and Sherlock bit his tongue to reign in his sudden need for sarcasm. It was not helping. "I – I think they also give it to people suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder," she eluded, regaining her traction, "especially amputees – to deal with phantom pain. It works on the voltage-gated calcium channels –"

"And opioids? Amputees would need the strongest pain medication available to deal with lack of limb."

"I expect so," Molly ventured.

Carbamazepine…opioids….Marianne Dasher missing…no foul play…but clearly hiding something…and Mycroft had spent the morning assisting in arrangements with the very ministry Armstrong had referenced for his alibi…these two isolated events were not disconnected. Somehow, he was sure of it.

He reached for his phone and began typing swiftly on his phone before he realised he had actually done it. "Sherlock?" Just his name, but it was a plea for information. He needed to sort through his thoughts, the clutter that was marring a once relatively clean Mind Palace. Molly would have to serve as his springboard for now. "Marianne Dasher. Ever heard of her?"

"Isn't she the star of that new that opened last week at the Albert?" Molly questioned.

"Yes. You've read the papers? She's missing."

"Yeah, I saw it this morning after breakfast." Molly leaned over carefully to watch him typing with lighting fast speed on his phone.

"Marianne Dasher went missing before the final act of last night's performance," he reiterated as he searched. "They've searched her flat and room at the Hall, contacted all family and friends, but nothing seems to suggest her whereabouts. It's as if she vanished.

"The only lead we have is a bunch of prescriptions written by a Dr. Leslie Armstrong which all conveniently have the named ripped off of them."

"And they're for opioids and carbamazepine?" Molly suggested.

"Yes. Armstrong is refusing to give the Yard any information concerning those prescriptions, citing patient confidentiality; but he's named Lord Mount-James as his alibi."

"He's the member of the Ministry of Defense."

"Oh, good, you follow," Sherlock quipped good-naturedly. "I had a visit from my brother this morning after his meeting the Secretary of State of Defense, concerning arrangements for a wounded veteran. Marianne Dasher's disappearance and this wounded veteran are linked."

"Really?" Molly stared at him incredulously. "How can you be so sure your brother's meeting was about this wounded veteran in the care of Dr. Armstrong? It might be another wounded veteran."

"No, the peach strudel ruled that out." Now Molly was looking at him as if he had grown another head. He quickly explained. "My brother consumed a peach strudel this morning – not the best of his breakfast choices. However, I know that our dear Defense Secretary has been trying to lose his embarrassing love-handles for quite some time. He wouldn't have ordered any tasty delicacies for him and my brother to consume. No, they were offered to them by someone else who was also at his meeting – Lord Mount-James who just so happens to love peach strudels."

"And how do you know he loves them?"

"A man who doesn't _does not_ intentionally like so many peach strudel recipes on Pinterest, now does he?" Sherlock flashed the webpage on his phone he had kept for future reference as confirmation.

The corners of Molly's mouth easily twitched into a smile.

It did not take Sherlock long to uncover the fact that Dr. Armstrong frequently did rotations at St. Mary's for his neurologic patients, and a Shaun Staunton, a double amputee, had been admitted for a complicated surgery the day before last.

"You can't just read those records, Sherlock," Molly protested, nearly furious over the fact that he had gained access to confidential patient information**. "They aren't yours."

"Very astute observation, Molly."

"They're password protected."

"Once again – spot on."

"You know this is why they started keeping patient records electronically – to thwart people like you."

"Electricity, the false god of security***. Molly, you should know by now that any password can be broken, any encryption hacked, any cipher solved."

She merely sighed in defeat as he scrolled through the information. He paused though, frozen by the latter portion of the man's records. Now, he knew where Marianne Dasher had been and why she had disappeared so quickly. He had been right. There was a lover. He was also right – she had been hiding something. She was hiding her care for this man and attempting to conceal it from the public spotlight.

She would not be hiding that anymore though. Shaun Staunton was decreased.

"Hiding a boyfriend – more than likely fiancé – from the public," he muttered as Molly assessed the information for herself. "She was quite clever. But not clever enough though. Not enough to fool me."

"He's dead." Molly seemed distraught.

Sherlock was still ruminating on Marianne Dasher's actions. "Hiding their relationship…why? Why would she do that?" he asked genuinely.

"Because she loved him," Molly instantly responded, as if to explain all. Sherlock sighed dramatically, finding the solution to this little case far from enthralling or intellectually satisfying. And it had started out so well.

Granted, it did prove his earlier observation to be valid. The East Wind did take all men and women in the end. But…to what end? What use was death if there was nothing to be beyond it? He had always wondered. Was there was anything more to the cold and bitter wind that caused many to wither before its blast? At times, he had varied between the almost fanciful hope that there was something cleaner, better, strong on the other side – or there was nothing at all. Each time, the task of seeking an answer had been deemed irrelevant. Nevertheless, seeing has he stood with half his foot in the grave already, perhaps setting up this line of inquiry would be appropriate; but this was a meditation for another day.

"What are you going to tell Greg?" Molly inquired. Sherlock hesitated as he brought up Lestrade's message and began a reply. Marianne Dasher evidently had her reasons for keeping her veteran fiancé out of the public eye. She was careful, as evidenced by her "perfect" flat. Nevertheless, she was also caring, meaning lapses in logic ultimately led to her discovery. But with her fiancé dead and her disappearance in the casebooks at the Yard, this sensational story would eventually make headlines in the papers. Now would not be a good time for such a break. She would need to grieve.

_And you let me grieve…how could you do that?_

He knew one man who experienced grief in the public eye, and he wished he could have spared him that added burden. Sherlock had uncovered the truth about Marianne Dasher's disappearance. She was safe. That was enough of a result. Who was he to disclose a truth that was meant to remain a secret, at least for the time being?

Sherlock replaced his phone. "Nothing," he answered. "Even he should be able work it out…eventually." Molly sat still for a moment, considering him seriously. Then she quickly leaned over to brush a kiss against his cheek. "Thank you," she gushed. He blinked at her oddly, not sure how he should respond. He had not done her a favor; it was Marianne Dasher who should be thanking him. Sometimes Molly seemed a strange creature. At least, she kept him on his toes.

"You dropped her."

"Excuse me?" he croaked.

"Baby Watson," Molly reminded him as she indicated his arms, "you dropped her when you started on about the case." Sherlock frowned. "So I did. Perhaps I need to get me one of those," – he motioned across his chest as he considered the appropriate word – "baby carrier things. It might come in handy if I'm ever permitted to keep her."

"Oh, I think you will," she assured him with an affectionate smile. He reached out and patted her hand between them with brotherly affection. "Perhaps they are wrong," Sherlock reflected after lapsing into silence for some time. "Perhaps I do have a sister."

Molly Hooper beamed.

* * *

*I am not claiming to be an expert on the use or administration of Carbamazepine. I did some research into the drug, and it seemed appropriate to use.

**Neither do I claim to know how the UK health system works very well. Since Sherlock Holmes managed to hack into everyone's mobile phones during the press conferences in "A Study in Pink", I took that as he's very computer savvy and would know how to get around security measures in any computer code.

***This quote is taken from the 1944 movie "Sherlock Holmes and The Pearl of Death", starring Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce as Holmes and Watson respectively. Moffat and Gatiss grew up on these movies and pay homage to them in BBC _Sherlock_. Therefore, I thought it would be nice if I incorporated a little nod of my own. :)

**Author's Note: **If the names of some of parties involved in the mystery did not give it away, the original story used here is "The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter". It is a lesser known Sherlock Holmes story but enjoyable nonetheless. I hope I've given the original story justice in its modern retelling.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: Baby Makes Three

**Chapter**: 5/6

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Non-graphic references to giving birth, discussion of drug use, discussion of death

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Molly/Lestrade (background)

**Spoilers**: For all seasons of Sherlock

**Summary**: John and Mary are having a baby. Sherlock Holmes is "celebrating" a birthday. Who knew the two events would coincide with one another?

**Author's Note**: Almost at the end of our little tale. :) The next two chapters are considerably shorter, but I hoped the brevity would capture Sherlock's reaction better. I split the next two parts up for storytelling's sake, but I should not be long in posting the conclusion.

So far, I hope I've done Sherlock Holmes (and all the characters involved) justice.

All mistakes are mine.

* * *

It was Molly who spotted him first. Sherlock stiffened at the sight of John scanning the waiting room for a familiar face. The man was surprised to find two. In her excitement, Molly caught Sherlock's hand and practically dragged him to his feet. She was nervous, fidgety, agitated. Sherlock could relate, though found it unnecessary to outwardly demonstrate this. He instead focused on John as he advanced. There was a bounce to John's step in his hurried approach, his arms swinging loosely at his side. Relative excitement seemed to exude from his very person. Sherlock had never seen a more joyous expression gracing his features…expect for perhaps that time around eight months ago. It did not take a great feat of deduction to determine that "the event" had occurred, and Sherlock found himself exhaling an unexpected sigh of relief.

John was nearly breathless when he reached them. Then he laughed. Molly stifled a giggle of her own. "How's Mary?" she asked.

"Fine!" he exclaimed, sounding exhausted but giddy with exhilaration. "She's splendid! A little tired, but well…you know." Molly revealed her full complement of teeth and her dimples pinched her cheeks. "And? How's baby Watson?"

John's smile could not have split his face any wider. "Amazing!" he breathed before another laugh, that elicited a private eye-roll from Sherlock. "She's absolutely amazing! Simply amazing! You should see her! She's simply gorgeous! Beautiful!" John stopped talking, from either having run out of adjectives or lack of oxygen, Sherlock was uncertain. Molly filled the lapse of conversation by giving John an enormous hug. Sherlock averted his eyes and wondered how long these ridiculous pleasantries would ensure. His friends pulled away, both laughing.

Then John's gaze met Sherlock's own.

There was an instant disconnect between his brain and mouth, and Sherlock struggled to regain control. He opened his mouth and nothing but a breath escaped as he scrambled for something to say that would be deemed appropriate. What could he say without sounding sickeningly sentimental? But was that not what people did upon the birth of the child? Toss about complements and admiration of a rather wrinkly, red human being and see that the parents were well-cared for with copious amounts of food, some balloons, and an endless supply of nappies.

"Congratulations," he finally decided. He had been instructed to utter those words by several today. It would have been a shame to spare his breath. "Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Lestrade were extremely anxious that I convey that sentiment to you – and Mary," he reiterated. "Congratulations." It all stumbled out at once. Sherlock grimaced as he attempted to remain pleasant. He felt poorly proficient in expressing these things – emotions – such a dirty word.

John stared at him for a moment, as if unable to comprehend what was being said. No doubt it was the fatigue. Then, without warning, he stepped forward and enveloped the unsuspecting consulting detective in an embrace. Sherlock stiffened as John pressed his chin into his friend's shoulder and squeezed rather hard. He struggled with his hands for a moment before patting John tentatively on the back. Rapturous delight did turn men into utter fools. When John finally released him, Molly giggled, and John laughed again as well. This was entirely too much laughter. In what way had any of this been exactly humorous? Nevertheless, Sherlock felt he had no choice but to demonstrate a slight smile of his own.

"You have to see her," John announced suddenly as he turned, expecting them to follow.

"John," Molly instantly protested, "don't you think we should let the baby and Mary rest?"

"Nonsense," John argued. "They've moved Mary to a quieter room, and she'll want to see you both. She sent me out here in the first place."

"If you think it best," Molly agreed tentatively.

It was settled then; and John led them through the forbidden doors further into the ward. Not once had that ridiculously stupid smile left John Watson's face.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: Baby Makes Three

**Chapter**: 6/6

**Rating**: T

**Warnings**: Non-graphic references to giving birth, discussion of drug use, discussion of death

**Pairings**: John/Mary, Molly/Lestrade (background)

**Spoilers**: For all seasons of Sherlock

**Summary**: John and Mary are having a baby. Sherlock Holmes is "celebrating" a birthday. Who knew the two events would coincide with one another?

* * *

Mary looked well, really well, all things considered. Her room had walls that were as pristine white as her sheets and pillows, most of which now served as a substantial prop against her back, and over-sized chairs, a whimsical green. A bouquet of bright pink balloons attached to a gorgeous arrangement of flowers sat next to the window. Sherlock instantly crossed the room to examine it. "Hello to you too, Sherlock," Mary said from her perch on the bed.

"Hello, Mary," he intoned without even glancing her way. "Congratulations. Mrs. Hudson and Grant send their regards…" – he flipped open the card on the arrangement and had his suspicions confirmed as to its sender – "and Mycroft as well apparently." Mycroft might have scoffed and scorned the sentimentality of polite society, but he knew how to turn out the elegant pleasantries when duty required.

"It's Greg," John needlessly corrected. Sherlock merely shrugged.

Molly approached the bed cautiously, and John laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. She's won't bite."

"At least not yet," Mary added with one of her sparkling laughs. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back as he observed Mary, John, and the baby who remained hidden from view, more than likely smothering in that pink, woolen blanket. Molly remained nervous but undaunted as she stood at Mary's bedside and had a peek. She let out a bit of a squeak and then turned to John with moisture filling her eyes. "She's beautiful." John grinned, and Mary smiled. Sherlock repressed a sigh as he flopped down into one of the luxury recliners and enveloped himself in it to watch the pleasantries unfold.

Molly nearly floundered when Mary offered to let her hold the child. But as John deftly passed the faceless, squirming bundle from Mary to Molly, Sherlock offered his support by making discreet motions, reminding Molly of what she had practised only hours before with him. Molly adjusted perfectly, and she smiled Sherlock's way once the baby was bouncing contentedly in her arms. Mary followed her gaze, but Sherlock feigned looking out the window and commented on the view.

There was much holding and cuddling of the child, several comments on the fact that the child "had John's nose" or "Mary's ears", a rather non-graphic description of the birth from both Mary and John's perspective, and much discussions of having a belated baby shower which ended with Molly taking over all arrangements for a party once the happy family had gotten settled with baby at home. Sherlock easily grew bored. He had experienced quite enough socializing for one day and wished for nothing more than the quiet walls of Baker Street. The case was solved, and the baby had arrived uneventfully. He saw no reason for his presence any longer other than to offer his own congratulations to John and Mary, though it seemed they had plenty of that already.

Molly soon excused herself, claiming fatigue. She passed over the baby to John, and he laid her tenderly in her bassinet, bending to brush a soft kiss against her head before tucking the blankets comfortably around her. Sherlock felt a warmth spread through his chest at the simple gesture. He might have found this unexpected change in his friend's life difficult to reconcile at the moment, but he no qualms about this new role fitting John Watson as perfectly as any other responsibility the man had shouldered.

John saw Molly to the elevator and returned shortly with that stupid grin still intact. Mary reclined against her pillows, looking exhausted; but she reached out for him as John entered. He rolled the bassinet over to the bedside and sat gingerly on the edge of her bed. Sherlock had been fiddling with his phone, but the marital silence between the Watsons caused him to raise his head.

"Did you get it?" he suddenly blurted out, deciding blunt was better than tact. John's smile actually wavered a bit when he realised Sherlock had been referring to his bizarre request. Mary found it amusing. "I was very firm about it, Sherlock," she assured him. "So firm, some of the nurses are convinced I want to perform funeral rites for it."

"You realise, in some countries, the placenta is considered an extension of the child and treated as such."

"Yeah. Thanks, Encyclopedia Britannica," John said moodily. "What do you want it for anyway?"

"The placenta has some quite fascinating properties that I wish to investigate. It isn't everyday that a man is capable of obtaining such a precious specimen. Are you certain they've stored it correctly?" He directed this inquiry at Mary, completely ignoring John's disgruntled face. Mary ensured him that they had. "Are you certain you don't want it, Mary? The tissue is rich in nutrients and vitamins; in some cultures its consumption is encouraged to strengthen the health of both mother and child."

"I'm good, Sherlock," Mary confirmed hastily. It was her turn to look a bit nauseated at the idea. "I think I'll pass. You'll make better use of it anyway.

"Consider it a birthday present," she suggested lightly. "But it's the only time I'm giving it to you. If you lose it, don't come looking for another one."

"Certainly not. I've had quite enough of your moods," he sassed in return.

"Hormones, Sherlock," Mary defended herself. John chuckled. Sherlock hummed in assent. And a small whimper joined the mix.

John rose slowly and pulled the bassinet closer to Mary's bed, as if that was to comfort her. Sherlock then noted an odd look in John's eyes and instantly knew the dreaded question was to soon be poised. "Do you want to hold her, Sherlock?"

Sherlock considered the eager John and expectant Mary, both expecting a swift reply. Then he regarded the bassinet warily, the baby having only revealed herself in voice and flailing hand movements since he arrived. It was odd. He had deduced her conception, been shown numerous sonograms that always looked more like grainy blobs than an actual human being, and once, while Mary had been sitting with him at the hospital, had been subjected to feeling the child move inside her belly. Nevertheless, he did not see why he had to hold the child as if it were some religious rite. He had deduced the day before that both of them were contemplating making him her godfather, a title he would be loathe to accept but would be forced to take nonetheless. However, it was far too early to be starting up a dialogue with the child. She currently could not focus images very well. She could not communicate effectively. Neither could she distinguish his voice from Mary or John's. No, a dialogue between them could be opened in a few months. But for now, it seemed irrelevant apart from John and Mary's need to snap a few embarrassing pictures that John would end up keeping and showing people at the most inappropriate times. So he answered John accordingly.

"No." His words succinctly echoed his contemplation. He rose to his feet. A shadow of disappointment flickered across John's face. Sherlock chased it away by further perplexing his friend and promptly pulling out his violin case from beneath his coat. There was a small sundry smile from Mary as she tugged John down onto the edge of the bed. Rolling over the room's eating tray, Sherlock arranged his afternoon's labour on its surface – music and recording both ready to play. Once prepared, the performer addressed his audience.

"I'm not one for coddling babies, John. I would likely make them scream or turn ill or something. However, as this baby is _your _baby," – he momentarily directed his gaze towards the bassinet – "and I am _your best friend_, I thought I should at least make an effort to offer my congratulations – beyond conveying the usual sentiments that have become so pedestrian.

"Thus, I've written a song."

Neither John nor Mary appeared surprised by this.

"You'll more than likely find it somewhat familiar…but I've tweaked it…a bit. It was missing something. Now, I hope I've put it right."

Sherlock pressed a button or two on his phone. Then he tucked the instrument under his chin and poised the bow inches above the strings. There was a brief lag in the recording. Sherlock closed his eyes. Though he had his music in front of him, he preferred to retrieve the composition from a room in his Mind Palace – a room that had been constructed for this occasion, a room that contained pristine white walls which served as blank canvas upon which a life was ready to be written. He inhaled sharply. The music began, and he played.

The piece was short. It had been written for a far shorter affair; but its length still suited the circumstances. Sherlock did not bother opening his eyes until he had concluded and then regarded his tiny audience. John sat still on the bed, clutching Mary's hand in one hand while the other rested protectively against the bassinet. The goofy grin had disappeared, it now replaced with an affectionate expression that suited the new father much better. He looked like John now. Mary had tears rolling down her face and dipping from her nose. Sherlock frowned at her as he lowered his violin, not sure what he had done to upset her this time. "Hormones, Sherlock," she choked, followed by a half-laugh, raising a hand to clean her face. John squeezed her other one supportively.

"That was beautiful," she managed with a hiccup.

"It was our waltz," John noted. "'Waltz, for Mary & John'. But…"

"But?" Sherlock echoed as he lifted his case from the chair and placed his violin lovingly inside.

"There's something added."

"Yes," Mary agreed.

"Another melody."

"I said I tweaked it, a bit," Sherlock reminded them, studying them tentatively. He could never tell. Did they like it?

"It sounds better," Mary admitted. "I think you were right. Something was missing."

"But you added another voice," John continued to point out. "There're three voices now." Sherlock gave him a look, not quite sure what part of this new arrangement confused him. Perhaps John was more musical illiterate than he previously thought. "Why? Why did you do that? Why not just write a completely new composition?"

"Why indeed, John." Sherlock closed his case with a snap and secured the fastenings.

"Have you not heard the colloquialism?" he added.

"What's that?" John asked.

Sherlock's lips twitched in amusement. "'Baby makes three'."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Happy 4th of July for all Americans!

Well, The End. I hope you all have enjoyed my little story, and I was able to to entertain some people with a bit of my own thoughts. If anyone is interested, I might consider writing another story in this verse, sort of a sequel. Thank you for reading and reviewing everyone! :)


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